


Sipping On Ice-Coffee

by scalphunter



Series: Alternative Universes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, F/M, I Don't Even Know, RomanRogers FTW, Romance, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalphunter/pseuds/scalphunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Whoops sorry’ Steve spins about and narrowly avoids smacking the young – significantly smaller than him – woman’s arm and spilling her ice coffee everywhere. Even time in the army hadn’t improved his co-ordination much.</p><p>Because sometimes, bumping into a stranger on a busy New York street works out just like in the movies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sipping On Ice-Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dillon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dillon/gifts).



> Simply inspired by a selection of objects by my good friend Dillon and all my BlackCap feels.
> 
> I don't pretend this is an amazing piece, it's just an AU I thought these two needed. 
> 
> Music: Oh My Goodness by Olly Murs, Classic by MKTO, Harlem by New Politics, Dreaming by Smallpools, Beast by Nico Vega and Treasure by Bruno Mars.
> 
> Enjoy :)

 

‘Whoops sorry’ Steve spins about and narrowly avoids smacking the young – significantly smaller than him – woman’s arm and spilling her ice coffee everywhere. Even time in the army hadn’t improved his co-ordination much. Granted, he wasn’t in the corps long … his point still stands. He pushes up at the bridge of his sunglasses (leopard print, 40s style– because, yeah he’s weird and he admits it. Well, to Tony anyhow) and wishes New York wasn’t so bloody hot at this time of year. The lady raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, shakes her cup idly, the ice clunking against the clear plastic sides and even in the bustle of the street she holds all of his attention like a twisted iron grip that doesn’t let him apologise and _leave_ like a normal person.

‘No harm done, big guy’ she comments, calmly, and Steve grins in thanks.

‘I, uh, it’s been a weird day. I don’t normally go around trying to rid people of their ice-coffee’ Steve says and she sips from the green straw, looking up at him through big grey-green eyes framed by dark lashes.

‘No?’

‘No’

‘That’s a good thing. People don’t like that – especially New Yorkers’ she says, looking around, and Steve snorts a laugh before he can stop himself.

It strikes him, right there and then, that she’s donning a NYPD Academy t-shirt and blue wash skinny jeans that seem to hang off her hips and cling to her thighs. She’s absolutely gorgeous. He blinks.

‘Steve’ he holds out a hand. She takes it, shaking it in a swift movement: it’s a strong grip.

‘Natasha’

‘You’re a cop?’ he asks, rather dumbly, and, like he said, it’s been long and weird day already.

‘Nicely observed’ she smirks, as if she finds him highly amusing.

‘Which division?’

‘Gang Intel’

‘Wow. Always respected the police force’

‘What are you? A journalist or an artist?’ she asks, her eyes raking over him and he vaguely feels like she’s silently investigating him.

‘Artist. How did you-?’ he peers down at the thick sketchbook in his hands and licks his lower lip in consideration because, huh, maybe he should take his art pad out instead.

‘Instinct. Plus you’ve got that _hipster_ look’ she snarks, shrugging. Steve gapes, thoroughly offended. What is it with people calling him that? Is it his jeans or vintage _Dodgers’_ t-shirt?

Yeah. That might be it.

‘I’ve just been insulted. Thank you ma’am’

‘You nearly left me coffee-less. I think I’m entitled’ she retorts dryly, not missing a beat and Steve can’t really argue with that, not with an off duty cop. He can’t quite make it out, however there is something underneath her tone, something that catches onto the outer edges and it isn’t beautiful as her.

And does Steve really want to know more.

‘Uh yeah, sorry about that again’

‘It’s fine but I have to go, my partner gets antsy if I leave him on his own’

Oh. _Oh._

‘Right. Of course.’ Steve smiles, instantly remembering he needs to be across town for a client and should have been already there, really. Time to hit the subway and fast.

‘Can I give you my number?’ Natasha asks, confidently and bluntly, and Steve freezes for a millisecond.

‘Uh-‘ he replies, intelligently. ‘Yeah’. _Way to go. Smooth. There is no wonder why you are single, buddy_ and that voice sounds like his ex-Major.

‘In case I wanted someone to _almost spill my coffee_ again’ Natasha clarifies and Steve hands over his phone, she enters it efficiently and slips his phone onto his palm.

‘Bye’ she says, and there’s a promise in the curl of her lips, and Steve is left a little stunned. She disappears into the crowd like in a rom-com, in a twirl of curly red hair.

Steve spots the time on his phone screen and swears under his breath, setting off for the station.

 

 

 

_67 th Precinct. 2820 Snyder Avenue, Brooklyn, NY_

_Natasha sits back in her chair and narrows her eyes at the screen._

_Steve Rogers. No criminal history. Completely clean. All American boy. Not even a ticket._

_‘Who’s this then?’_

_‘A guy. Clint get off my desk’_

_‘Who-‘_

_‘Nobody’_

_‘So a somebody? Look Tash, just ‘cause he ain’t got a record doesn’t mean he’s clean. You have to quit comparing guys to Buck-‘_

_‘Finish that sentence I dare you’ she twists his wrist at a painful angle, sneering at him, yanking him towards her. Clint surrenders, swearing and shooting a glare at Natasha who isn’t bothered, leaning back._

_James Bucky Barnes (Ex-cop, gone rogue, her former partner before Barton): now serving a sentence behind bars for his crimes undercover. He’d got in too deep and was no longer a cop._

_Her ex-lover._

_She exits the citizen search, which technically isn’t legal but she’s good with technology and hacking, and she did more than enter her number into his phone. Natasha stretches, rolling her shoulders._

_‘Romanoff, Barton! My office’ Detective Coulson shouts, beckoning them and not waiting._

_‘Time to go to work’ Clint beams, finally getting off her desk._

 

 

 

Steve pokes at his noodles, skewering and lifting, and while he chews on a mouthful, he thinks that this is why he loves Thai food.

‘So, Stevie boy, what happened to you today?’ Tony asks, grinning widely.

‘I got two more big commissions and a raise at the gallery’ Steve answers, ‘Oh and I nearly spilled a cop’s coffee and got her number’ and Tony chokes on his drink, so Pepper pats him on the back, rolling her eyes as Tony gets his body under control.

‘You, what – way to go! See, it’s that golden boy charm of yours, I’ve always said so, even in the army. A cop? The closest I got to a cop were those stripper twins of ‘07 in costume…’ Tony trails off, reminiscing, going glassy eyed, then yelps as Pepper pokes him in the ribs. He smiles at her sweetly and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Pep…’ he wheedles, pouting.

‘No. Get that thought out of your head right now’ Pepper admonishes quickly and Steve smiles at the pair, they are great together. Tony’s mock shock dissipates rather fast, however Pepper isn’t paying attention. ‘Well done. What is she like?’

‘She’s beautiful. Honestly. She’s – there’s something about her, it’s interesting’ he says and is fully aware that he does sound like something out of cheesy movie.

‘You should text her’ Tony says nodding, and absently fiddles with the tablet on the side. Steve dodges that because he already did.

‘How’s the work, Tony? Any more projects?’

‘I’m tinkering with a reliable way to hold a clean energy source. Based on that design I showed you – the arc reactor? We’re nearly there, aren’t we, Pep?’ Tony says proudly and Pepper nods.

‘Stark Tower at the centre’

‘You mean that big ugly thing?’ Steve sasses, teasing, and Tony glares at him, pursing his lips and unimpressed.

‘Yes, you hipster’ Tony snaps.

Steve pokes his tongue out and returns to his noodles, adding some peanut carrot sauce.

 

 

 

 

Steve sends a silly text off to Natasha’s number one afternoon, not really expecting a reply, tossing the now empty paper _Starbucks_ cup into the trash with steady aim. Whoo.

They have been texting at random intervals and even grabbing lunch at a niche corner café on her break.

_Hi I managed not to spill my coffee or anybody else’s today – Steve._

He bites at the end of the light wood paintbrush that’s stained dark blue, switching on the music speakers at his studio. He nods and dances in front of the huge easel. The painting is for a short, English writer, who has recently sold her novel and made a mink, and who appreciates art. She assured him he could take as long as he wished, although she would very much like it this year. Steve sniggers in remembering that particular detail.

His phone lights up.

_Congratulations. You’ve saved incidents for the precinct – Natasha._

Steve smirks, shakes his head as he types out his reply.

_Just doing my civic duty – Steve._

 

_Good to hear – Natasha._

_I aim to please :) – Steve._

He sends it and then groans to himself, smacking the phone to his forehead. That sounds all kinds of creepy. Great. Awesome.

He jumps slightly as his phone starts to ring. He reads the ID and answers it promptly.

‘Hi Sam, what’s up?’

 

 

 

Steve hears about the protest march on the news, his twitter goes boom, and he peeks outside of his apartment windows as the rally sounds get louder and louder. It’s a pride march for civil partnership or ‘gay marriage’. It’s like being back in time. The beat of protest drums, the motivation chants. Now, Steve has always been a firm supporter of standing up for what you believe (sticking for the little guy), and that it doesn’t matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right or, in this case, vice versa, and becoming the immovable rock, planting yourself in the middle of the river of truth and telling others ‘No, you move!’, and so the rebellious side of him wants to pull up his window and cheer with them. However, the conservative side nudges and kicks him, and tells him that this could potentially go bad because there’s been a history of non-peaceful protests in this area of Brooklyn since war time (Brooklyn – and Queens, actually – was the place where the weird things kick off). There are police officers hanging around, watching, keeping an eye out for trouble and it’s, all in all pretty fine.

Steve is struck with a jolt of inspiration and grabs his DSLR camera that sits on the precarious pile of commission papers which vaguely resembles the leaning tower of Pisa right about now, checks the charge, and heads out with a grinding shut of the studio door.

He goes down the stairs and out of the building into the bright sunlight, the blue sky eating up fluffy white clouds. He aligns his camera, snaps a shot of the wave of the banner held high by a man in his twenties. The man looks over and smiles, salutes him, so Steve laughs and grins, crouching to get a better angle. Banner-guy ambles over and asks if he could see the photo. Steve obliges and tells him he’s a professional and that he fully supports their cause. The guy beams and slaps a rainbow peace sticker on Steve’s t-shirt.

‘Hey, you, guy with the camera!’ someone shouts and that is the precise moment when it all goes to hell in hand basket, trundling away at a speed which makes Steve extremely confused.

His fighting skills – defence moves – he learned in the corps, fends off two men bigger than him, sadly, in army fatigues and Steve tries to separate himself and calm things down, because he really doesn’t want the news vans to start rolling this out for the media. That doesn’t happen, thankfully, nonetheless the police take forceful action and in the midst of all the chaos, he spots her.

She’s in her blue fitted uniform, roughly breaking apart two guys and the ‘anti-gay’ one, decides hitting a female cop is a perfectly productive thing to do, on a sunny early afternoon in the middle street. Steve fist pumps inwardly as Natasha, barely breaking a sweat locks the man’s arm and one decent shove sends him sprawling to his knees with a squawk of alarm. When his friend steps up, she draws her weapon in an efficient and dangerous move, telling him to back the hell up.

Steve gapes, in awe and he’s kind of swooning, and raises his camera (saved from all the insanity except for a few scratches) and takes a photo of her. She’s all streamlined, and like a tigress with confined power ready to pounce: fierce and stunning. Her curly hair sweeps and cloys in the gentle wind and Steve admires from afar, grinning. She’s commanding orders and lowers her gun in a such a practised move, her body is completely fluid. Her partner handles the idiot still on the floor. He squints.

You would think that would be the end of it.

Nope. Nope. So much nope. Not so much.

Steve has brief sympathy for the police officers, up until the point he – yes, him, the peaceful camera flashing bystander – is kettled with the protesters. He wonders, tapping his foot on the road surface, whether it was fate that he had a clear schedule today, peering through the lens and taking some shots of the crowd, and thinking of whether The Pulse might enjoy them. He sighs, picks at the sticker on his chest and slumps. A woman to his left, a curvy dirty blonde with a nose piercing, grins up at him in a companionable fashion. She’s holding a bouquet of white roses and, in scanning the crowd, Steve can see there are other people with them – in their hair or simply clasping them like batons.

White rose: denoting purity and innocence. The irony of their current situation isn’t lost on him. His phone rings from his jeans and he startles, answering it.

‘Hey, Stevie! Where are you?’

‘Uh. I’m busy right now, with a lot of people’ he says sardonically and the woman snorts.

‘Shame, I was going to ask you if you could run by the tower-‘

‘I can’t really do that’ Steve answers, swivelling on the spot, shaking his head even though the engineer can’t see him.

‘Ah. Pressed for time huh? I’ll never understand you artists,’ and Steve toys fleetingly with the idea of explaining that Tony _is an artist_ , just not in the same way, but he deflates on the spot and, frankly, can’t be bothered.

‘Okay Tony. Bye Tony’ he says and ends the call, sighing in resigned frustration, pocketing his phone.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll be out soon’ the woman says.

‘Thanks’ he replies, then nods at the flowers. ‘What’s with the flowers?’

‘White roses are supposed to symbolise humility, purity, silence and strength’ she intones, giving him a wry smile.

‘Right. Do you mind if I take your picture?’ he asks, and she looks shocked. Steve, in what space he has, which is admittedly, very little, focuses his shot on the clustered roses. Offering up a grin and showing her the photo, she praises it.

‘Here’ she says, picking out a rose and thrusting it at him. ‘Have one’.

Steve stares at the flower, accepting it with a lopsided grin.

‘I think that’s the first time a lady has given me flowers’ he says, and his phone vibrates with a message. He had text Natasha earlier, before any of this, and she’s replied hours later.

_Controlling a mass protest in Brooklyn – Natasha._

Steve smirks.

_I know. Care to come a see a protester? :) – Steve._

He sends it and spies Natasha amongst the other cops on the other side. She looks at her phone and frowns, her brows drawn together in a pinch. She abruptly examines the crowd, identifying. So he waves somewhat sassily, and she raises an eyebrow, says something lowly her partner, and moves gracefully, one hand lazily on her holster.

‘Officer’ he greets respectfully, once she’s close enough, although it’s ruined by his smirk.

‘What can I do for you?’ she says, smiling a little, secretly.

‘Nothing really, but have rose’ he twirls the flower, watching Natasha blink at it.

‘You called me over here, to give me a flower?’ she asks, sounding bewildered, albeit soft and curious.

‘Pretty much’ he agrees, keeping the deadpan line of his mouth.

‘Why?’ she leans back on her heels, a challenging expression on her face, the same one she used in arguing with him about Russian art over a brie bagel.

‘Because a beautiful woman deserves one’ he shrugs, now aware that there are a number of eyes watching them and them alone. They’ve become the interesting factor this side of the barricade. Yeah, he could have worded that better, but she isn’t scoffing or walking away, so he counts that as a plus.

‘Okay’ she says and there’s a faint cheer from behind them. Steve chuckles, a flush at his cheeks as she takes the rose.

The hand poised at her gun, reaches up, curls around the back of his neck, playing with the strands of his hair, and – she’s kissing him. He flails for a second or two, then hovers his hands at her uniform belt. Her lips are warm and sweet, and he responds, licking at her mouth and their kiss deepens languidly, and Steve’s breath stutters in his throat.

There’s a roaring sound of the applauding and encouraging crowd and Steve desperately tries not to laugh at the ridiculousness of his life right this instant. He slips his index finger into the curve of her handcuffs and she clamps down on his wrist in teasing warning and and immediately Steve is smiling against her mouth, swears he feels an answering twitch in return.

 

 

 

Steve’s just an artist and photographer from Brooklyn and Natasha’s a tough (in the totally badass section, he mentally calls her) cop with a history that unfurls as time goes on. They’re two people whose lives clashed together by pure accident. Steve finds a successful motive for learning French and Chinese - and, no, it does not involve sex thank you very much – and Russian which, in fact, does. There’s a theory, he’s heard, about multiple alternate universes, and that in each one you live a different life, yet will always find the same people, claim the same lovers, and make the same friends. As he celebrates his one year anniversary with newly appointed Lieutenant Natasha Romanoff, standing beside that same set of rusty black railings, Natasha sipping the same ice-coffee, he considers that if he had the ability to change universes, this is where he wants to be.

 

(‘You know, in one of those universes you two could be superheroes or something,’ Tony says, whilst manually destroying a hunk of metal in the workshop.

‘Whatever you say, Stark’).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Comment/kudos are welcome :)
> 
> This is the picture of objects. If any of you guys wish to pick an object (or three) and want a fic based on them then feel free to message me with any specifics.  
> http://origincache-ash.fbcdn.net/1739934_1374756146136268_2005855313_n.jpg


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